Fardwor, Russia!: A Fantastical Tale of Life Under Putin

XXI

NIKOLAI HEORGIEVICH FILIMONENKO, the ataman and meat distributor, of course, didn’t believe what he saw on TV news, and he was suspicious that things weren’t as spotless with the Sochi Olympics as Vladimir Posner said in all the ads. But that he—a modest and low-profile person, in general—was what the country needed to save the Olympics seemed to him like something out of the French comedy films that he had watched in his childhood, not anything real. He was weighing a bluish business card in his palm in a stunned silence. The business card read Olympstroi Corporation. OZERKOV, Vladislav Aleksandrovich. Managing Director.

“I am a business-minded person.” Nikolai Georgievich always managed to choose the right tone in each conversation as they took place, and if the person he was talking to had interrupted him, then Filimonenko would have changed it right away. But his companion was silent.

“I am a business-minded person,” the ataman repeated, “and I don’t like superfluous introductions. If the Olympians need meat, they’ll get meat, there’s just one question: how much is needed and how much money do we have? You don’t have to worry about the rest, Filimonenko has never failed anyone before.”

His companion was silent, looking the ataman in the eye. Then he quietly said:

“When you guys burned down that asshole’s shack, was the liquid in there?”

Nikolai Georgievich generally knew how to choose the right tone in a conversation, but now he lost his bearings. He looked at Vladislav Aleksandrovich as though for the first time—yeah, he looks KGB, but what does that mean? It could really mean anything, but Filimonenko correctly guessed that, sure enough, before him sat a former functionary of the Federal Services, but not from National Security, rather from Federal Protection; and he is already familiar to us, because while Mefody Magomedov was alive, Slava worked as his assistant.

And when Mefody had been cremated without so much as an autopsy, Slava brought the urn straight to Kirill’s office in a big red sports bag with a white Cheburashka on it.

Kirill squeamishly pointed to the corner—put it over there, and as if he was continuing a just-interrupted conversation, said:

“Yes, I know how to say ‘Thank you.’ Your position, as you can guess no longer exists. But this only means growth for your career. Olympstroi, are you familiar with this name?”

Slava was indeed.